Still I Cannot Fathom You
by continuityofsilver
Summary: As when Dean escaped from Purgatory, he starts seeing Cas in mirrors, out of the corners of his eyes as fleeting images that appear and disappear before he can fully realize them. And Sam begins to suspect Dean cares more than he lets on.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Sorry it starts off so slowly; it will pick up, I promise._

Five o'clock on a Sunday morning and Sam's already wide awake, busy doing his research thing and sipping coffee from a chipped, suspiciously off-white mug provided by the motel. The sound of his fingers pounding against the keyboard gnaws at Dean's hazy mind until he's awake enough to realize he's not getting back to sleep. Reluctantly he sits up, propping himself up against the pillows.

"'Morning," Sam calls. "Can you grab some breakfast? I hear there's some kind of morning buffet next door. With sausages and eggs."

_Grab it yourself, douchebag, _Dean wants to snap, but Sam looks like Hell, and he would know. With a small groan of protest Dean rolls over and slides out from under the sheets. Still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt from yesterday, he, too, looks haggard and worn. In the half-light of the quickly rising sun, his battle scars stand out pink against the tanned flesh of his arms and hands. He smooths down his shirt and yawns, stretching his arms toward the ceiling.

"I'm going, I'm going," he says defeatedly. He finds it strange; ever since Cas left, he's had less energy, less spirit burning inside him. It's like the entire world moves more slowly around him, and his own body moves like it's swimming through a river of viscous syrup. He shuffles toward the door, slips into his shoes without bothering to tie them.

"Wait," he says, pausing in the doorway. "You sure they're even open this early? Sam?"

Sam doesn't look up from the computer screen. He shrugs. "I guess you'll have to find out."

Dean gives him a long, exaggerated eye roll before marching out the door. He closes it behind him and slips his hands into his pockets. Outside, the fresh morning air slithers through his nostrils and burns the roof of his mouth. The strange coolness lifts his spirits, sooths his aching eyes. It ignites a spark of energy somewhere inside him, and he picks up his pace as he continues down the sidewalk, across the parking lot, and up toward the main road where there's already quite a bit of traffic.

Tendrils of sunlight spill through the trees far in the east. Dean can almost see the crest of the sun peeking over the treetops. He smiles to himself. It's not often he gets a moment to himself like this, to bask in the refreshing smells of morning. Though he's not really one to appreciate nature or anything, secretly he enjoys these moments of slow clarity.

Even this early in the morning people walk up and down the line of small mom-and-pop shops lining the main road, stopping to admire the knick-knacks displayed on the many windowsills. Dean passes by a clock shop (how much business does a clock shop _actually _get nowadays?), an old-fashioned candy store (reminds him of a place Dad used to take the brothers after he got home from a hunt), and, finally, the delicious smells of pancakes and sausages and bacon and all sorts of other things come wafting out of a small restaurant called "Heavenly Breakfast Buffet (Our food is heavenly, and our prices are even better)".

It brings to mind thoughts of Cas, and Dean feels his whole body deflate. He pushes it from his mind and pushes open the door, setting off a loud, electronic beep that scares the waiter aimlessly staring into space by the cash register. "HI," he yells, breathless. "S…sorry. I mean, welcome to Heavenly…yeah. Our food is, um, better, and our prices are, um heavenly!"

Dean grins and nods. "New here?" he asks.

The boy turns a bright shade of red and nods sheepishly. "First day," he admits. Straightening up, he asks, "How many?"

"Actually, could I get that to go?"

"Uh, yeah. How many, uh, do you want boxes? Or, like, a bag or something?"

"I guess I'll take four boxes, and you can hold the…bag. Nah, wait, make that five." Who knows how much Sam'll eat.

The boy ducks under the counter and bobs back up with five white take-out boxes. "I think that'll be, uh, twenty dollars?" He glances at the sign above him. "Yeah, twenty."

Dean fumbles for his wallet and pulls out one of a few shiny credit cards. Flashing a smile, he slides it across the counter. The boy catches his eye and turns an even deeper red.

"Thanks" – he glances down at the boy's nametag – "Danny," says Dean.

His breath always catches a little bit when he uses one of the cards, despite all the years he and Sam have used stolen credit. He feels his hand form into a fist as the boy slides the card through the register. But the machine beeps happily, and Dean exhales.

"Go ahead and sign the…the thing, right there, Mr. Thomson," the boy directs. Dean obliges, scrawling in a messy hand something that vaguely resembles the name on the card. He slips the card back in his wallet and gathers up the boxes in his arms. Embarrassed, he finds he can hardly carry them like this, let alone filled to bursting with food.

"On second thought, I think I'll take that bag," he sighs. The boy pulls a plastic bag from under the counter and puts it on top of Dean's pile of boxes.

"If you need help…"

"I don't." It may have come off a little harsher than he intended, because the boy stops smiling and gives Dean a very solemn look.

"Okay," he says quietly. He props his head up on his hand and returns to daydreaming.

_Weird kid, _Dean thinks. _But not all that different from Sam at that age. _He pokes his head around the corner and there it is: the buffet itself. It's a sight to behold, almost as long as the room in which it's housed and nearly as wide, too. Only a few people meander up and down its length, poking at sausages and fruit cups and pre-toasted toast. A few of the nearby tables are occupied, mostly by elderly men hiding behind newspapers. With a bounce to his step, Dean approaches the buffet.

And then he stops. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees something impossible. _Cas? Was that…Castiel?_ He feels something crawling up his throat, clogging it. His eyes water; his mouth goes numb and dry.

_You're just imagining things, again_, he reassures himself. Besides, he can hardly see over the tower of boxes in his arms. But he closes his eyes, blinking back tears he didn't even know he had. For a moment he just stands there, motionless beside the buffet. Then, gathering courage, he dares open his eyes.

There's nothing there. Nothing whatsoever. Just a cheap print picture of Michaelangelo's _David. _He snorts. It shouldn't be funny, but for some reason it is. He'll have to tell Castiel he mistook David for him—

_Don't think about Cas. Don't think about Cas. Cas is gone, get over it, dammit! Don't get fucking mental in the middle of a restaurant; people think you're crazy as it is. _

Dean walks down the line, shoving whatever's closest to him into the boxes, then shoving the boxes into the bag. Despite himself he feels his heart heave inside his chest, feels his body growing weak, mind growing faint. _Not here, not now!_

He darts toward the nearest booth and collapses into it, letting the bag of boxes drop to the seat beside him. He told Sam the visions had stopped, that he didn't see Cas everywhere, in everything he did; nor did he hear him in every whisper, every word he spoke. But he did, and it terrified him more than anything.

Dean wipes sweat from his brow and out of the fog he sees the young waiter from before approaching him, a look of concern plastered on his face.

"Sir?" he says, leaning in close to Dean. Dean slides back toward the window instinctively. _Great, now that damn kid sees me as some weak old man, passing out just by walking a couple of feet. Dammit._

Dean grins weakly. "Hey, I'm fine thanks. Uh, but a glass of ice water or something would be nice."

The boy gives him a worried smile. "No charge," he states, before disappearing into the kitchen.

All the morning energy he had felt just moments before had been drained out of him, leaving him an empty, exhausted shell. He glances back toward the buffet but sees nothing out of the ordinary. _What were you expecting? _

He checks to make sure the waiter isn't coming through the kitchen and sneaks out the side door. He walks around to the front, ducking down below the window, and walks briskly back to the motel room. The boxes bump against walls and against his thighs, but he doesn't really care at this point. He just needs to get out of there, as far as he can. He just needs space to think.

Sam's still typing away at supersonic speeds when Dean returns. "A little help here?" Dean snaps. Even with his foot shoved in the door, he can't slip through with all the boxes. Sam heaves himself up (it's like he hasn't moved an inch since Dean left) and overdramatically swings the door open for Dean.

"What's in the boxes?" he asks, letting the door slam shut.

Dean purses his lips. "Animal hearts and the blood of my enemies. I don't know, genius, take a wild guess."

Sam raises his hands defensively. "Hey, no need to go all bitchy on me. I'm just wondering why you have so many."

"Because your stomach is the size of a small child, Sam. And I'm not going back there for seconds."

"You seem upset. Did something happen?" Sam takes the bag from Dean's arms and sets it on the table, removing a box full of still steaming-hot sausages.

"No," Dean lies. He knows Sam can tell he's lying, but hopefully he'll overlook it in favor of concentrating on the food. Trying to change the subject, he asks, "Any word on Cas?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nope. Nothing. Sorry, Dean. Look, I know he was practically your best – well, only friend, but I think it's really time you moved on. Like you always tell me: focus on the job."

Dean's nostrils flare and in a fit of anger he pounds his fist on the table. "You don't talk about Cas like he's not coming back, you hear? Don't even _think _it. He's Cas. He won't abandon us. Not now. Not ever. We clear?"

"Okay, okay! Calm down. Just…if you want to talk or anything…"

"No." Dean forcefully pulls a box toward himself, effectively ending the conversation. Still frowning, he opens a box of French toast. It smells like cinnamon and butter; his stomach rumbles. Hungrily they both dive in, finishing off everything together within the hour.


	2. Chapter 2

The case takes them to a picturesque Victorian-style mansion perched upon a solitary hill, surrounded by lush pines. The Impala complains little about the steep and winding road and soon they are slamming the doors and stretching their legs in the warm midday sun.

Dean pats the trunk of his beloved car. "All right, baby," he coos. "We'll be right back. Don't…fall down the hill." He frowns worriedly at the slope on which they're parked. Sam rolls his eyes.

"Dean, one of the signs of insanity is talking to inanimate objects…"

"Yeah, because you've always been the pinnacle of sanity, Sam," he retorts jokingly. But as soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean knows they sting Sam more than he intended. The younger brother looks toward the sky and slips his hands in his pockets. Sam walks hurriedly toward the front door, Dean trailing him a few feet behind, scratching the stubble on his jawline and looking anywhere but Sam.

The woman who answers the door is thin, frail, and crumbling. Her big, watery eyes scan the brothers warily, as though they might move to attack her at any second. She's dressed in a faded pink nightgown and fuzzy slippers, like she's just woken up. Her frizzy grey hair reaches down to her back. It swishes back and forth hypnotically when she speaks.

"Come in," she whispers, cracking the door barely wide enough for Sam and Dean to squeeze through. "I've been expecting you." She ushers them into the foyer and shuts the door, bolting each of what Dean counts to be about seven locks behind them. He raises his eyebrows at Sam, who pointedly ignores him.

While Sam follows the woman into the adjacent sitting room, Dean takes a moment to take a look around. It's grand, for sure. The wooden floors are perfectly polished; there aren't any cobwebs hanging from the ornate chandelier above, nor is there a single speck of dust on the little table by the front door. An enormous staircase winds up to a curiously dark second floor. Dean squints, but he can make out nothing more than the vague outline of a door.

Suddenly he hears a great crash from the back of the house. The hairs on his neck stand on end. He pulls his gun from his belt and cautiously makes his way down the long, paneled hallway leading toward what looks like an open ballroom of sorts.

"Hello?" he calls out. His voice echoing off the floor is the only reply. He presses on and enters the room. Here there is little shelter save for a grand piano in the far corner. Windows make up the entirety of the far wall. Dean pushes his back into the wall and edges along, gun cocked and pointed.

Behind the piano, another door opens into what Dean thinks is a kitchen. Since the only thing in the ballroom that looks remotely capable of making a crash like that is the piano, he figures the sound likely originated in the next room. He finally reaches the door and peeks around the corner.

A mix of disappointment and relief flood through his body and his shoulders relax. He quickly hides the gun and hides his apprehension behind a broad smile. In front of him stands a young woman, maybe in her late-twenties, with long, blonde hair tied up in a flowing ponytail. She bends over, collecting the broken pieces of what once was an ornate china plate. When she catches sight of Dean she starts, dropping the shards to the ground again.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there," she apologizes, standing up and wiping her hands on her jeans. "Please don't mind the mess; I can be clumsy sometimes."

"It's no matter," Dean says deeply. "I'm Agent Kristoph, FBI. And you are…?"

"Parker Grant. I work here, for Ms. Geraldine. I'm her housekeeper. Part-time, of course." There's a tired truthfulness in her eyes. Dean surmises that she's probably working more than her fair share.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to ask a few questions regarding…"

"…Mr. Geraldine, I presume?" Parker fiddles with the side of her shirt, averting Dean's eyes. Dean makes a sound of affirmation, and Parker beckons for him to follow. They walk through the kitchen, carefully stepping over the pieces of china, and into a cozy dining room.

"I'm sorry," Parker says as they each pull out a chair and sit. "The police already came by here, and there's really nothing more I have to say."

Dean clears his throat. "Well, we just need to check in; it's a routine thing." He winks, and she smiles coyly in return. "So, uh, Parker." He inches closer. "What do you think you can remember? For me?" He knows he's pushing it, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"Well, the night it happened, I was over there in the kitchen, fixing dinner, and I…" And she launches into some long, convoluted tale about mysterious knockings and serial murders. Dean scribbles some notes down to maintain appearances, but he's fairly positive it's spirit activity. Nothing they can't slap a bandage on with some salt and a nice big bonfire. When Parker finishes, Dean pats her on the shoulder, assures her they will do everything they can to locate Mr. Ger-whatever's murderer, and hands her a tissue to wipe her eyes.

"Thank you so much, Agent," she hiccups. "He was like a grandfather to me. I just…can't imagine who would want to do something so horrible to such a sweet old man."

_I can, _thinks Dean. "Neither can I," he says. He gives a polite wave and leaves Parker there to stew in her tears.

He steps over the porcelain shards again and exits the kitchen. The ballroom seems smaller than it had when he first entered, and unrestrained by worry, he takes a moment to marvel at it. The ceiling depicts many naked cherubs surrounding one larger-than-life angel with one hand raised in some kind of peace symbol or something and the other gripping a sword of flame. He is clad in a gleaming white toga-type costume, chipped and faded by time. His feet crush a hissing serpent, and on his forehead sits a glowing halo. Two pure white wings jut out from his back.

Dean chuckles to himself. _They sure got a lot wrong. Michael is ten times more douchebaggy in real life. _But then his face grows dark. Staring up at the ceiling, with the world beginning to spin around him, Dean's thoughts wander to Cas. Sure, he's worried, but he's been worried about Sam too, and he's never thought about Sam in this way. He's not entirely sure what "way" this is, but it's different from the "way" he worries about Sam. Instead of a familial worry, it's more of a…

Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. Cas is gone, for now or for good; Dean doesn't know. He shoves his hands in his pockets, looks down at the ground, and marches out the door and down the hallway to Sam. No time for thinking, only time for working. There'll be time to think when he's dead someday.

Sam's still talking when Dean reaches the little parlor. He holds up his arm and taps his wrist, and Sam nods almost imperceptibly. He shakes the woman's hand and thanks her, then walks out to meet Dean.

"Some case, huh?" Dean says, rubbing his hands together. "Definitely our kind of thing, right, Sammy?"

"…Yeah." Sam pushes the door open and lets himself through, barely holding it open for Dean. As soon as he's sure the door's slammed shut behind them, Dean grabs Sam's shoulder and whirls him around.

"Come on, Sam. I was kidding with you, okay? It came out wrong."

"Let's just go, Dean. I'm hungry." Sam slides Dean's hand away but his face softens and Dean knows he understands. Maybe he hasn't forgiven him, but he understands.

They jump in the Impala and Dean blasts some music until they both forget.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I'm thinking Cas next chapter, hopefully. I already have his returned planned; I hope I can execute it the way I want to. Enjoy!_

They spread their lunches out on the beds because Sam's afraid Dean will spill ketchup on the laptop again. With a bit of spare money Dean found under one of the mattress they bought themselves milkshakes and now chat back and forth amiably, interrupting each other with loud slurps. For the first time since Cas left Dean finds himself smiling genuinely. Sam sees it too, captures it in his mind.

"Hey, Dean," he says after a pause.

"Ummph." Dean's trying to fit his mouth around the perimeter of his second hamburger.

"I was just wondering – and don't take this the wrong way, okay? I still think it's within the realm of possibility. But on the off chance that Cas doesn't…you know…"

Dean spits the burger out and shoots Sam a murderous glare. "Finish that sentence and I will smite you," he hisses. It's not like he hasn't considered it. In fact, he probably spends far too much time thinking about it. But it's just too difficult a concept to wrap his mind around. He cannot even begin to fathom a life without Cas in it, and it scares him, sends shivers echoing up and down his spine in the middle of the night.

"Sorry for bringing it up," Sam says.

Dean props himself up on one elbow and picks at the side of the hamburger bun. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot." Sam shoves a handful of fries in his mouth, swallowing them down with a gulp of milkshake.

"What did it feel like when Jess, you know. Died."

"Devastating." Sam takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, dragging the painful memory out of the depths of his mind. "It was like…I dunno, man. Like living someone else's life or something. Just another reminder of how I'd never have a normal life. Why?"

Dean bites his lip and becomes increasingly interested in the sesame seeds dotting his burger. "No reason, really. Sorry I brought it up, dude. I know it's still tough."

"Y'know, it's actually not anymore," Sam admits. "It's just like, to get the job done I had to move on. Clinging to the past is never healthy, man. You can't change anything, and it's no use going through life sulking about what's already happened. Make the best of the rest, I guess."

"Spoken like a true Stanford kid." Dean smirks, but Sam's mouth shifts into a frown.

"Dean, this is about Cas, isn't it?"

Dean's heart lurches and he blinks rapidly. "What?"

"Look, I know it's hard for you when he's not around. But come on, we've gotten through Ellen, Jo…hell, we even got through Bobby. It's gonna take time and it's gonna hurt, but it gets better."

Dean opens his mouth to tease Sam about using that slogan, but something stops him. For some reason, it hits too close to home, in some place, a part of him that he can't comprehend but also can't deny. Some weird, tender part of him covered by pride and fear. Instead, he just swallows.

_It does hurt. It hurts so bad, Sammy. It hurts worse than almost anything, and what gets to me the most is why. Why do I care so much? Cas is great, he's a great friend, but so was Benny. So were countless others who had helped them on their journey to now._

"Well," he breathes at last, "good thing it doesn't hurt." With that, he jumps to his feet and goes to grab a beer from the mini-fridge in the corner. He's gonna need a hell of a lot of this tonight. He can tell already, can feel the ache in his bones growing deeper and duller. In times like these, the bottle is his only friend. He pops the cap off and gulps the stuff down, feeling the familiar warmth cloud his chest. All Dean wants to do is drink and drink until his stomach bursts and he can no longer feel anything, anything at all. Until Cas's mind, Cas's smile, Cas's _everything _ is wiped from his memory.

And drink he does. Drink until the sun runs scared for the western horizon and until he can't even see the bottle he's drinking. Until Sam has to leave because he can't bear to see his brother in such a state. Dean hasn't been this bad since Bobby died.

There's a part of him that is conscious of his state. "You are breaking down," it whispers, but he doesn't listen. He can't. There is duty here, honor and pride in the work he does. A hero does not break, does not bend even when the world rises up against him. No, a hero trudges on, and for that they are heroic. Dean is not a hero; of this, he is all too aware. There is not a shred of worth within him, nothing worth saving.

And in a sudden flash of clarity he realizes why he cares so much. Cas. Cas was his purpose. Cas gave him purpose when all hope was lost. If not for the promise of saving Cas, Dean would never have escaped Purgatory. He would have stayed and fought beside him for all eternity. It was because of Cas that Dean had never left Sam alone and asleep in the motel room and gone out back and put a bullet in his mouth. Because even if he wanted to so badly, even if he wanted to dive into a suicide mission, there was always that little spark of hope glimmering in the back of his mind: Cas.

Suddenly he sees it: the light at the end of his tunnel. And it's not the light of the sun, nor the light of a moon nor any other natural thing. It's Cas, burning brighter than day. Grinning innocently, childishly.

"Cas…" Dean whispers. The drink is finally slowing him down to the point of almost passing out. He moves sluggishly toward the bed and kicks off his shoes, then collapses into the mattress. Exhausted, drunk, and overwhelmingly terrified at his revelation, he's out before his face hits the pillow.


End file.
